Tag
by ohgoditsbriony
Summary: It's a deadly game of Cat and Mouse — and Hinata and Sasuke are wrapped up in it all. Don't think about tomorrow. Live every day as if it were your last. "Tag," he whispered. "You're it." —Sasuke/Hinata
1. 00: And The Game Begins

_I do not own Naruto.  
This fanfic is dedicated to all my fans at Fifty Days! I hope you love this as much as I do!_

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**TAG**  
—_you're it_

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It was raining, when Hatake Kakashi pulled up outside the Yamanaka Household.

It was a nice house, he mused, with white-washed walls and clean windows, but it bore the unmistakeable signs of having housed a high school party — there was paint across the windows, and glow sticks trodden into the pavement. Bottles and plastic cups littered the floor, and a birthday banner hung across the top of the door, with the words _HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KARIN! _written across it in block italics; someone with a permanent marker had gone a bit crazy with the smiley faces, he figured, but, all in all, it seemed as if it had been a surprise party, thrown while the parents were out of town.

And still _were_ out of town. He knew for a fact that Kurenai had been attempting to get a hold of the parents for the past fifteen minutes, but to no avail — obviously, they'd decided to have a little bit of alone time, or something similar, and had switched off any means of contact. A shame, really.

They would be the last to know of their daughter's death.

He stepped gingerly over a puddle of something disgusting, pushing one hand into the pocket of his trench coat, the other balancing two coffees in polystyrene cups, before stepping inside the house. The entire place reeked of sweat, mingled with the sweet scent of something like decay — or perhaps the metallic undertone of _blood_ — and so, with the hand already in his pocket and still balancing the two drinks, he pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it against his nose, before taking the stairs two at a time. He turned the corner, headed to the bedroom at the far left, and pushed open the door.

The entire room was _pink._

Pink curtains, pink walls, pink sheets on her pink bed — there were a few teddies, bunched at the foot of the bed, and these were all in varying shades of pink. He crossed the room, heading over to the dead girl's desk — there was make-up sprawled across the wood; a lipstick stain and some spilt blusher, he figured, but nothing of any importance — he let his gaze travel upwards, to the notice-board above it, where various different bits and bobs had been pinned into the wood, with pink drawing pins. He found his gaze drawn to one photograph in particular, placed directly in the middle of the board — it had been a picture of four girls, he knew that much, but all of their faces had been scribbled across; all but one, in fact.

He found himself gazing at lilac eyes, dark hair and a shy smile.

One of them had blonde hair, and he figured it must be Ino; it would make sense, after all. Judging from the clothes littering the floor, and the amount of make-up on the desk, she didn't seem like the type of person who would rather be behind the camera, than in front of it; and he wondered why she'd cross out her _own_ face. He tugged the photograph from the board, looking about the room as he folded the paper in half, before slipping it into his pocket.

Without really thinking, he found himself opening her wardrobe door.

He let out a low whistle.

"…how many shoes does a girl need, honestly?"

Sat next to the dead body, Sarutobi Asuma flashed him a grin, cigarette clamped firmly between his lips, "Long time since you've been a girl's bedroom, Kakashi?"

"Not as long as you'd think, Asuma," Kakashi replied, with a winning smile — sadly hidden behind his polo-neck jumper, pulled high over the bottom of his face — before crossing the room and crouching beside the dead body, which had been covered by a sheet, handing his friend and colleague one of the two coffee cups, "Show me what've we got, then."

"I don't think you'll like it," the other replied, as he pulled back the sheet; and, almost immediately, Kakashi recoiled, pressing his hand against his mouth, the other hand shaking slightly as he clutched his drink — Asuma merely shrugged, as if to say he _did_ warn him, before taking a swig of his drink.

She lay with her arms spread wide by her sides, her eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling — sky blue, he noted, just like her father's —; her lips were painted red, pulled into a grimace, as if she'd only just managed to stop herself from crying out. She hadn't wanted to give her killer the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy — or she had been too shocked, he thought, to realise she was going to die. Her hair, bright as the sun, was stained red with blood; her killer had slashed once at her chest, cutting shallowly through her skimpy dress, before slashing once again at her neck; still, for a girl whose throat had been slashed, there was very little blood spatter.

In fact, she should have thrashed and spun and _fought_ — there should have been blood all up the walls, across the carpet, on her face; _everywhere. _Instead, it had simply dribbled down her neck, staining her dress, splashing across her face — it pooled beneath her, but that was all.

That was when Kakashi noticed the nails crudely hammered into the palms of her hands — two ragged, jagged holes, where she had pulled at them, attempting to free herself, and he had to turn away.

"…take a few photographs, and then we'll send her down to Anko," he spoke, his voice blank, void of any emotion, "I'll work on getting in contact with her parents and getting statements from the witnesses."

Asuma nodded once, taking another drag of his cigarette before standing, tossing it absently out the window — he watched as the ashes burnt amber, before fizzling into nothing, underneath the film of rain.

And Kakashi decided it was a very sad thing indeed when such a pretty girl died such a horrible death.

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**03:04:41**

He spotted the girl from the photograph almost immediately.

She was stood furthest away, arms wrapped around her body, stood beside a blonde boy — who Kakashi recognised as Naruto, a boy who often found himself in and out of police custody, through a series of mistakes . He'd offered her his jacket, and it lay awkwardly across her shoulders; his face was grim; an expression, Kakashi decided, which didn't really suit Naruto at all. In fact, it looked odd — far too odd — on him; he crossed over to them, offering the girl a comforting smile, before holding the photograph up.

"Do you recognise this photograph?"

She nodded once, biting her lip. "But why are the f—faces—"

He cut her off, with a short, sharp nod. "That's what we want to know, actually. Were you a close friend of Yamanaka Ino's?"

She seemed to hesitate, as she considered the question. "…I was a friend of her… her b—boyfriend…" She trailed off, and Kakashi couldn't help but feel sorry for her. He offered her a smile.

"What's your name?"

"H—Hyuuga Hinata."

Ah. He should have been able to tell, really, from her eyes.

"Well, Hinata — would you mind answering a few questions, for me?"

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**03:00:09**

It was raining, when I finally left the party.

My hair stuck to my forehead, soaking my blouse — already stained pink with blood, I realised, and I didn't quite want to touch it — and my skirt clung to my legs; I was thankful for my tights, otherwise I was quite certain I'd have been the coldest person there. I hugged my arms around my body, biting my lip, gazing down at the pavement below — tracing the cracks with my eyes, I wanted to just stand there; stand there until the events of the night had disappeared, and my body had finally stopped shaking. Stand there until the lump in my throat vanished and I thought I _wasn't_ going to cry. Stand there until time rewound, back to before the nightmare.

Stand there until the world stopped moving.

I couldn't close my eyes; the image of my broken friend, of _Ino_, sprawled across the floor, wrists bloody, eyes wide in fright, would forever be burnt within my mind. I couldn't think of anything else — nothing at all. I could only think of the _pain_; of how much she must have suffered — of how she _must_ have screamed out, because… because… there was no way she _couldn't _have. If Ino had suffered in silence… The thought was enough to make me gag. It was too horrifying, too awful, to be true.

I'd been the first one up there; the lights had been off, but Ino had told me she was going to go and lie down, so it wasn't really something I found at all that strange, and I'd stepped forwards, and I slipped —_ slipped_ — in Ino's _blood_, and, oh God, oh _God_, it had been _horrible. _I'd called out, my voice shaky, wobbling awfully — going all high at the end, something I haven't done since I was in middle-school; and I called out Ino's name again, this time stuttering, my voice failing me midway through the words I wanted to scream. I pulled myself to my feet then.

I—

I let out a barely-stifled sob.

A jacket fell over my shoulders, and I looked up, blinking back tears; the boy I'd spoken to at the party — Naruto, I think his name was — smiled gently back at me, his eyes betraying his true feelings; how _scared_ he was. And if even _he, _who'd seemed so sure and so confident when he'd spoken to me, was scared, then I… I didn't know what to feel. But he placed a hand on my shoulder anyway, despite his true feelings, with a sheepish smile, and shrugged. "I thought you might need someone," he said, tentatively, as if unsure of whether his words could really make anything better, "To talk to — and I figured, if you wanted me to, I could _be_ that someone. Just for tonight."

I couldn't really say anything, so I just threw my arms around his body, pressed my head against his chest, and let myself cry, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. Frantic, but controlled, as if he were trying to fight the fear. I felt so vulnerable, in those few seconds — my normal awkwardness had vanished. If it had been under any other circumstances, I would have blushed beetroot red, and no doubt fainted — but it just seemed right, after everything that had happened. It seemed right, clinging to this boy I barely knew. I wondered what my heartbeat sounded like — I wondered if my heart had broken into a million little pieces, and I wondered if I'd ever, after seeing such a terrible thing, be whole again.

What I couldn't know — not at that moment — was that life would _never_ be the same again.

It would be—

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**21:36:11**

—_pandemonium._

That was the only word for it, I mused, as I gazed at the mass of writhing bodies around me; perched on the edge of a leather sofa, I clutched my drink — orange juice, no alcohol — to my chest, pale eyes watching the people around me. I spotted Kiba in the middle of the dancefloor, drink held high above his head, the amber liquid sloshing onto the floor around him; his expression was one of complete ecstasy, as he moved barely in time with the music, jumping up and down. He looked so happy, I couldn't help but smile myself.

But he wasn't the only one losing himself, to the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and pure, unadulterated teenage _lust. _Everyone was dancing — everyone was screaming, laughing, joking — everyone was living in the moment. Sweat dripped down naked flesh — scantily clad girls swung their hips in time to the pounding rhythm, as boys with slicked back hair and fresh shirts moved closer, underneath the neon, flashing lights. The music only just managed to drown out the dull undertone of voices, shouting to be heard above the noise; the entire room was cramped, with people packed so close into one another, that they could feel the other's body heat.

Drinks were being thrown in the air, liquid raining down on the people below; teenagers were sprawled across every surface I could see — sat across the kitchen table was Tenten, one arm looped around a stranger's neck, her thigh pressed against his body. In the middle of the dancefloor, Ino and Karin were dancing together, snaking their bodies in time to the drumbeats, all flesh and sweat and _smiles_ — every male eye was on them, watching as they dipped forwards for a drunken, clumsy kiss, in time to the whoops of adolescent boys. Ino threw her bottle in the air. It smashed upon the ground behind them, glass littering the floor, sparkling like pretty neon jewels, underneath the light. The atmosphere was wild.

The party was in full swing.

In all fairness, it looked like nothing but _mess_, to me; there was no control, only chaos. It hurt my eyes, my _head_, and I refused to drink anything alcoholic, not in this wild and clumsy atmosphere — who even _knew_ what could happen. No, with my button-up blouse and my black pencil skirt, just to the knee, coupled with faded black tights, I didn't really fit in at all. But no one was looking at me, so that was fine — I didn't _need_ to fit in. I was comfortable being me, the outsider at the party, always looking in.

Who knew that, later on, I would be wishing I was anyone else?

After all, I was only there to act as the designated driver, for Kiba and Ino — if they hadn't asked, I wouldn't have turned up. It was Karin's birthday and I didn't really know the girl; I hadn't been invited, not really, and had been the only one out of the three of us to actually give her a present — at which, Karin had smiled, wrapped her arms around me and proceeded to tell me she loved me, the scent of alcohol already lingering about her, before spinning away in a dizzy haze of red; red dress, red hair, red lips, red eyes — red, red, red as blood.

Looking at all that red — at the short skirts and tight tops, designed to show as much of the bust as possible —, I realised I didn't suit parties.

I was too quiet, too shy; I tended to sit in the corner, with my drink, while others twirled and danced and flirted — and that was exactly what I did, after being greeted by Karin; I bid Kiba and Ino farewell, not that they really noticed, as they were already flinging themselves into the crowd, and wandered away to find myself a sofa and a corner. I've never really dressed well for parties, either — I don't have any clothes which _suit _parties, and I she always looked out of place; dressed too neatly for a party. Dressed like a _librarian, _Kiba said — which had stung a little bit, but he'd ruffled my hair and said it was a look he liked, and so I passed it off as a roundabout compliment, instead of an insult.

And I don't dance, which is one of the _only_ things you can really do at a party.

I _hated_ dancing — which was why I was perched on the sofa, drink in hand, watching the bodies move together in chaotic synchronisation, instead of dancing myself.

"Looks like fun, right?" A voice called above the noise, and I swung my head to the left, blinking at the newcomer — messy blonde hair, the colour of a candle flame, and gentle blue eyes, he waved a hand in greeting, gesturing sheepishly to the seat next to me, "Mind if I sit there?"

I shook my head, returning his smile with a nervous one of my own, "…go ahead."

He sat down, and I took that moment to look at him properly. He was _sunny_, with a sunny smile and sunny blonde hair and sunny blue eyes — he seemed to radiate a sort of glow, as he sat next to me, drink in hand; and with his faded blue t-shirt, and his baggy denim jeans, he looked gangly — awkwardly tall, awkwardly sat, awkwardly smiling. He was all bones, I thought, and a little bit scrawny, but he would blossom — he would grow into himself, as all boys do, and he'd be quite handsome. But, almost like me, he didn't quite suit the party — there was just something out-of-place about him.

I didn't quite understand it.

And I'd never really spotted him around school. Absently, I wondered who he was and where he'd come from, with his pretty, pretty smile and his pretty, pretty eyes.

He caught my stare and offered me his hand. "How come you're not up and dancing, like the rest of them, huh?"

"I guess I'm just not _like_ the rest of them," I shrugged, my smile turning sheepish, a light blush flashing across my cheeks — oh, how embarrassing; what a ridiculously _cheesy_ thing to say. I pressed my hands against my cheeks, willing my blush to go away, refusing to meet the other's eyes. "And, uhm — I _can't_ dance."

The boy laughed, "Is that so?"

I nodded.

He stuck his hand out then, a gentle grin adorning his features. "The name's Uzumaki Naruto, and I guess I'm not like the rest of them either. What's your name?"

"My… my name's Hinata," I replied, as I took his hand. "It's a… it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Well then, Hinata," Naruto squeezed my hand once, before tugging me to my feet; I stumbled, blinking, and fell against his chest — oh God, how _embarrassing _— at that point, my blush returned tenfold, and I turned tomato red, pushing away from him instantly. He merely chuckled, before swinging me towards him again — and this time, I managed to keep my balance, steadying myself with one hand against his chest —, this time pressing a hand against my back, to hold me in place. "Dance with me?"

"But… I _can't _d—dance_—"_

"Neither can I," he shrugged, "I guess I sort of just flail my arms and _hope_ I'm dancing, not just punching people around me. But we can fail at dancing together, right?"

I blinked.

Pandemonium, I thought, but I nodded anyway.

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**23:43:54**

On the dancefloor, I bumped into Ino.

She was a mess; sweat dripped down her forehead, glistening beneath the neon lights, following her neck down to the curve of her body — her mascara dripped down her face, streaks of black upon a tanned background, and her hair had slipped out of its band. It fell down her shoulders, tangled, the humid air about her making the blonde locks curl and frizz. The bottom of her dress — a little black thing, too tight, too clingy — kept hitching upwards, but she didn't really mind; she was too far gone — as Kiba would have put it, I realised, the other girl was _shitfaced. _

"…'_nata_," she greeted, her voice slurred, as she slapped a hand against my back. "…didn't think you _danced._"

"I don't," I replied, with a small smile, "Not normally. But… but N—Naruto wanted to, so I thought…"

I trailed off.

Ino was ignoring me, choosing instead to stare at her phone — the screen lit up dimly in the darkness, and the girl was straining to read the words; but her reaction was obvious. And, because of her reaction, I found myself trying to read the message she'd received, but she hid her phone before I could even catch a glimpse of the words. Her lips pulled downwards into a frown, and, even in her drunken state, the worry was obvious in her eyes — her eyes flashed towards Naruto, then me, then her phone, and she held up a hand. She was shaking — whether from the amount of alcohol in her system or something _else_, I didn't know.

"I've… I'm goin' upstairs, 'kay, Hinata? I need to lie down, for a little while — come and get me, when you wan'… when you wan' to go."

The blonde didn't wait for a reply, pushing her way through the clingy, crowd of bodies, all grinding and bumping and _swaying _— and she suddenly looked so small, so _awkward, _as she glanced back over her shoulder, offering me a little smile. She was no longer perfect Ino — her make-up was smudged, the cracks were showing in her mask, and her painted face was peeling away; her walls were being knocked down, one by one, and she was shaking — _shaking_. At that moment, I realised Ino was _scared._

But Ino turned away, before I could say a thing, and disappeared into the throng of sweat and bodies.

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"…your friend looked pretty out of it, Hinata," Naruto spoke, peering down at me, his voice laced with concern and — and something _else._ I couldn't quite place it. It was almost as though _he'd_ seen how scared Ino was.

As if he _knew_ something.

I narrowed my eyes, brow furrowing — because I _swore_ I saw someone walking swiftly after Ino; someone with dark hair and darker eyes; with pale skin, dressed in a black shirt, which only made his skin look paler. He glanced back, briefly, over his shoulder at me, and I felt my heart almost stop.

_Uchiha Sasuke._

"…Hinata? Did you hear what I said?"

I nodded absently, but I wasn't really listening — because, very clearly, I saw Uchiha Sasuke taking the stairs two at a time, following my friend — following _Ino _— to her room.

Following a girl who would die, in only ten minutes, to her death.

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**23:45:19**

That was the last time I saw her alive.

That was the last time _anyone_ saw Ino alive.

And that was the moment everything went to _hell._

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**03:21:48**

Kakashi listened patiently as the girl told her story, making notes in a pocket-sized pad he kept in his coat. As far as he knew, she would have been the last person to speak to Ino — which, with anyone else, would have automatically made her a suspect; but she was so quiet, so meek, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. He doubted she would lift a weapon even in self defence, but he couldn't cross her off completely — after all, it _was_ the quiet ones you had to look out for.

"We're almost done, Hinata, and then you can go home," he spoke, before glancing across at Naruto. "You, though — you're staying here."

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but instead shrugged.

Kakashi turned back to Hinata. "Did you see anyone else speak with Ino, before she went upstairs?"

"…just… just one person."

He nodded for her to continue.

"Uchiha _Sasuke."_

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**23:53:49**

_Blood._

Beautiful, beautiful — it spilled beneath his fingertips, dripped across the floor, stained her skin red, red, _red. _

So beautiful.

He pressed the knife against her throat, dragging sideways; and he didn't stop, didn't wait, to see her die. No, then he stood, crossed the room, gazed at the photographs; had to resist the urge to press a blood-stained finger against pale skin and lilac eyes. Instead, his eyes moved downwards, searching for a pen — he saw one, picked it up, and scribbled across the photograph. He got rid of the imperfections.

Only her.

Only _her._

"Tag," he whispered, moving so close his lips almost brushed against the photograph. "You're _it."_

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**03:19:36**

Across town, Uchiha Sasuke stayed sat upon the park bench, eyes closed as he listened to the bustle of Konoha City around him. He listened to the pulse of the nighttime traffic; listened to the sound of loud, booming voices — drunken idiots, loitering outside clubs and pubs, waiting for a taxi home or for the night to end. He listened to the sound of his own heartbeat, hammering away too quickly. He sat still as a statue, calming his breathing, waiting until he was entirely sure he wouldn't panic — wouldn't run and run and _run_, until he could run no further — before opening his eyes.

Then he pushed his blood-stained hands into his pockets and headed towards his home.

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**PROLOGUE:—  
**and the game begins

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"…Yamanaka Ino was a prized, intelligent student, as well as a bright, intellectual, _beautiful _young woman," the Headmistress spoke, leaning forwards slightly, face grim and sorrowful as she gazed at the unsmiling sea of teenage faces below. "Here at Konoha Academy, we have watched as she has blossomed into a truly brilliant student. She will be sorely missed, by all her friends here — by _everyone."_

It was difficult to know what to say, when it came to Ino. After all, she hadn't been loved by everyone. There had been those who hadn't known her, and never _would _know her; there had been those who she'd abandoned; ex-boyfriends, ex-friends, the whole bunch. The real deal, I guess. She was a cheerleader, Miss Popular on the outside, a little girl in the middle; sure, she might arrive late at a party she was supposed to be hosting, just so all the eyes are on her, and sure she might have been the life of every party, but she wasn't that girl all the time. Sometimes, she missed her daddy. Sometimes, she cried at romantic comedies. Sometimes, she was just like you or me. But the Headmistress didn't know that; at least, I don't think she did. She was singing the praise of an all-too normal girl.

I hadn't been Ino's best friend, but I don't think she would have liked it, had she been there to hear it.

Not that I really cared all too much, at that moment. I was too busy fighting the urge to burst into tears. My fists were trembling. My eyes, so wide, were unblinking, watering ever so slightly; but I knew that if I closed them, I'd burst into tears. I sort of wanted to cry, though. Just not in front of everyone. Not when people could see.

Not now.

I sat prim and straight-backed, hard-faced, trying not to cry — but it hurt, so much; more than I thought it would, and I hadn't even known Ino particularly well. I'd only known her through Kiba, and we hadn't really spoken — just enough to get to know each other, I suppose. She used to tease me and ruffle my hair; she was the only person who could call me cute, other than Kiba, and I _wouldn't _blush. I glanced briefly to the left, gazing at Kiba; he had been silent all through the memorial assembly, but his fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were biting into the palms of his hands, and he was shaking so violently, that I wanted to hold him — wanted to place a hand on his shoulder and pull him close, and tell him that everything would be alright, but I was certain that if I did so, he would just push me away.

In front of me, Haruno Sakura was outright sobbing.

"Let us share a moment of silence and send our prayers to Ino, cruelly ripped away from us by a misguided soul. A moment of silence, students, if you please."

The Headmistress bowed her head.

I waited a moment, before doing the same thing — only then did I cry, lost in my own thoughts, as the images of the night before flashed through my mind. Only then did I cry, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat, realising what a fragile sound it was indeed, and how easily it could be snuffed out, as tears dripped down my cheeks and onto my clenched fists; splattering across my skin, like droplets of blood — like rain. Only then did I cry, and my tears mingled with the tears of Inuzuka Kiba, who — head dropped, eyes closed — only chose that moment to let go; chose that moment to break completely, and I _longed_ to comfort him. Only then did I cry, but whether they were tears of relief, that it wasn't _me_ dead — that it wasn't _me _everyone was crying for — or tears of sorrow, tears of _fear_, I didn't know.

I still don't know.

We sat in silence, all of us, for precisely three minutes; and then, row by row, we were dismissed. I walked with Kiba, wandering along behind Sakura a decent distance away — close enough to overhear the girl's cries, but far enough away so that I couldn't quite comfort her; and, as selfish as it was, I didn't _want_ to comfort her. Sakura needed this, this moment of grief. And I needed the silence. What could I say, anyway? I had, after all, barely known Ino, but Ino had been Sakura's best friend — there was _nothing _I could say to make that better, and trying would only make it worse. Sakura was a headstrong, brave girl — she wouldn't want me meddling, as nice as the thought behind it might be.

She would grieve in her own time.

Besides, I had Kiba to think about.

"I want to go to her locker," the other announced, startling me from my thoughts.

"…w—what?"

"Her locker," Kiba replied, with a frown, his voice shaking only once. "I want something to… She has a picture of us, together. I gave it to her. I'd like it back."

I nodded, before gently slipping my hand through Kiba's, squeezing tightly, trying to show him that I understood; he didn't respond, and his hand felt so limp, so cold, that I felt close to tears just holding it. Instead of crying, though, I began to walk, pulling him along after me — and it felt awfully _weird. _Usually, it was the opposite way around; Kiba would be the one running ahead, grinning back over his shoulder at me, waving for me to hurry up — but, this time… I glanced back over my shoulder only once, and saw that his eyes were distant, trained on the ground in front of him. I wondered if there was anything I could say.

But words, as easily as they can come sometimes, are difficult, tricky things — and I couldn't think of the right things to say, so I simply pulled him along in silence, heading quickly towards Ino's locker.

When I finally slowed to a halt, he looked up.

"Is this it," he asked, and I nodded; without saying anything else, he took a step forwards, the combination easy for him to remember — but he frowned, hesitating for a second. "That's… that's _odd."_

"What…?"

"The locker — it's not _opening."_

"Is it," I blinked, taking a step forwards for a closer look, before continuing, "Is it jammed?"

Kiba frowned, before pressing his shoulder against the metal — then, with a sharp tug backwards, he thrust his full weight against the door, as quickly and as hard as possible. There was a loud clanging noise and I glanced sheepishly around, hoping that no teachers had heard — I really didn't want to explain why we were trying to break into a dead girl's locker, especially with the police investigation still going on. There was another clang, and this time a whoop of triumph — the door sprang open, and I turned around just in time to see ripped shreds of newspaper flutter to the floor, like confetti or snow.

I shared a puzzled glance with Kiba.

All of Ino's books had vanished — _everything _of hers was gone. Instead, the locker was filled entirely up with newspaper, some of it ripped to such tiny sizes that the words weren't distinguishable; on others, entire words had been ripped out, bold and black and _jagged_, striking my heart and making my blood run cold. _Murder. Death. Kill. Dead_. Beside me, I saw Kiba reach into the locker, expression blank, pulling out something that made my heart almost stop, right then and there.

A photograph.

Of _me._

Eight years old, bright-eyed, smiling — my hair pulled back from my face by a lilac Alice band, my blouse buttoned up to my neck as it always was then — and three words written across my smiling face, in block, red letters.

_TAG — YOU'RE IT._

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I pressed my hands against my mouth, eyes wide with something like fear, as I gazed at the photograph opposite me; we'd retreated to a nearby empty classroom, and Kiba had almost instantly slung his arm around my shoulder, pushing my face against his chest and holding me close. That was what I needed, really — some comfort. But my eyes kept straying to the photo, where he'd dropped it on the table, and the big, jagged words.

_Tag._

Like it was a _game._

Like a girl dying — like _Ino_ dying — was a _game._

"…a sick joke," I heard Kiba whisper, and I realised he had to be just as shaken as I was; because his on-off girlfriend had been _murdered_, and now _this? _His childhood friend, sweet and shy Hyuuga Hinata, next on this list — being _it? _No, he had to be shaken up — I could feel him trembling. "A sick fucking _joke."_

And then came the fear.

What if it _wasn't_ a joke?

What if I was… if I was _next?_

I stared over his shoulder, gazing blankly at the wall opposite, dazed and confused; because, if it wasn't a joke, then what did it mean? Did it mean _I_ was next — that I too would end up cut up and _broken_, bleeding out onto the floor, dying in some dirty ditch? That the next memorial day would be for _me_, and that the flowers, held clutched to the chests of so many highschoolers, would be thrown by _my _graveside? That it would be _my_ family crying — that _my_ family would be the ones everyone looked at with pity in their eyes? And, if it didn't mean I was next, then…

What _did_ it mean?

"K—Kiba, we need to t—tell someone—"

But my voice caught in her throat.

And panic — raw, unadulterated _panic_ — threatened to overwhelm me. Then and there, I felt like a rabbit caught in headlights; in fact, I finally understood that phrase, for perhaps the first, but not the last, time in my life. I wanted to run away, but I couldn't; I tried to wrench my gaze away, but I _couldn't. _I felt frozen to the spot, arms wrapped around Kiba, eyes trained on the door opposite — and my mouth dropped open and I thought I might shout out, except no words came. No sound came. There was nothing. I was stuck where I was, and Kiba was oblivious to the eyes watching us.

He was oblivious to the figure stood by the door.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

_Go away!_

When I opened them again, the stranger was gone. All that was left was the smudged fingerprints upon the glass door, and the sound of my heart hammering, as I wondered who on earth he was — and what he'd wanted.

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His lip was bleeding.

He hadn't noticed it before, as he stood in the alleyway, his knuckles cut and bruised, but his lip was bleeding — he pressed a finger against the cut, moving his hand away and gazing down at the little bit of red. It seemed darker against the pale of his hand. Dark eyes moved upwards, glancing at the person sprawled across the floor, and, with a grunt of irritation, anger, frustration, _rage_, he kicked outwards at the other, listening eagerly as they let out a yelp of pain — and then he was kicking and kicking and kicking, until the shouts grew quieter and quieter.

Then he turned away, tucked his bloodied hands in his pockets, and disappeared into the bustle of the city.

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"I should, uhm… I should head back to my l—locker," I said, finally, barely managing to keep myself from stammering, my heart was beating so hard, and my head was throbbing so much; I pulled away from Kiba, offering him a little, tentative smile. "Don't worry, I'll be… I'll be _fine._"

He seemed uncertain; his hand lingered on my shoulder. Obviously, the photograph and the words on it were still fresh in his mind.

"I _promise_," I reassured him.

He nodded once, squeezed my shoulder tightly, and then turned to leave the room, ducking around desks and chairs. I waited until I heard the door swing shut, before moving over to the desk, picking up the photograph; I stared hard at the picture, at my smiling, younger self, and wondered where on earth it had come from, and why it was in Ino's locker — then, on a spur of the moment whim, I turned it over, staring at the back. My heart froze and the world suddenly seemed to spin around me; because the back of the photograph was splattered with something crimson red — something which felt sticky beneath my touch, so much so that I wondered why I hadn't felt it before.

_Blood._

The photograph slipped from my fingers and I let it fall.

If there was blood, then… then maybe the threat, written across my young face, wasn't so empty after all? I stood there for a moment longer, before sucking in a deep breath, crouching to pick up the photograph; not wanting to really look at it, I folded it in half, tucked it into my pocket — it never really occurred to me that it might have been evidence — before straightening, walking over to the door. My fingers closed around the handle — I pulled it open, just in time to walk face-first into a male chest, my head bumping against muscle. Instinctively, the other's hands reached out for me, before I could fall backwards — and I saw that his knuckles were split.

I glanced upwards.

I think my heart stopped again, and my knees went all weak and wobbly — too many frights, I figured, for one day. When I was younger, I used to faint a lot; I only just managed to stop myself from doing it then, the colour seeping from my features. Uchiha Sasuke stared down at me, an eyebrow perfectly arched, his body between me and the exit.

Absently, I wondered if my day could get any worse.

"You're Hyuuga Hinata, right?" Sasuke said.

I nodded.

"Then you might want to sit down — I don't exactly have _good_ news."

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I'd have felt rude if I'd just left, so I sat down at one of the empty desks, wondering what on earth Uchiha _Sasuke_ could have to say to me — never once had we spoken in our lives. In fact, he was the complete opposite of me, cool and aloof and _beautiful, _although I'm sure he'd have preferred being called handsome. He walked past me in the corridors. In fact, I don't think he's ever even looked at me before.

So, when he asked me to sit down, I was pretty surprised, to the point where I did it almost instantly.

He stayed where he was, for a moment, before crossing the room, sitting in front of me; he was even prettier up close, with sculpted features, and a long, aristocratic nose. His skin was pale, like parchment, but not too much so — it was as if he rarely went out in the sunlight, but I was certain he did; I'd seen him, a few times before, walking about with Kiba, although I'd never seen him directly talking to my friend. It was more as if they were acquaintances, and felt as if they _had_ to meet up, at least once in a while. He was watching me with an eyebrow raised, because, let's face it, I was _staring_, and I felt my cheeks heat up.

I found myself frozen in place, as he reached forwards, brushing his thumb against my cheek; for a few seconds, he simply traced my cheek, moving his fingers downwards, brushing against my lips — and my eyes widened, my skin flushed bright red, and I snapped backwards.

"W—what're you _doing?"_

He shrugged, a smirk adorning his features, "…You're prettier up close."

"Y—_you_…" I stammered, unable to think of the right words, struggling helplessly. "You can't just… _touch_ people like that!"

His smirk seemed to get wider, "Why? You _liked_ it."

Once again, I found myself lost for words, gazing speechlessly at him — how one boy could so easily leave me floundering for words, I couldn't quite understand. I'd never even spoken to Sasuke before, yet he was brushing his fingers against my cheek so easily, as if it meant _nothing_ to him. I couldn't quite understand it, but, then again, I didn't understand _him. _I blinked, unable to think of a single word to say, and so instead settling for gazing at my hands, clasped in my lap, waiting for him to continue.

I guess we sat in silence for too long, because finally he stretched, reaching across, placing his thumb on my chin and tilting my head upwards. Dark eyes searched my features, and I felt uncomfortable — so uncomfortable, I couldn't quite understand, as if there were something more to the person sat in front of me. Something I couldn't see, but could feel, lingering in the air like static electricity. It made my heartbeat thump all that quicker. Made my breathing shallow, ragged, uncertain.

His lips tugged into that deadly smirk again.

"Hyuuga Hinata, you're in a lot of danger," he spoke, then, and his words frightened and attracted me in equal measure; although, the second half probably accounted to the tone of his voice — low, dangerous, _thrilling_.

His fingers never left my face, but his smirk disappeared and his expression turned deadly serious.

"You got the invitation, didn't you?"

My fingers brushed across the photograph in my pocket. I wondered whether I should show it to him, but instead I simply nodded mutely — I assumed that had been the invitation, but his words were scaring me. It was too much. I was in too deep. Already, only a day had passed, and my entire world had been single-handedly thrown upside down. Uchiha Sasuke, for a few seconds, looked as if he might understand.

Then he pressed his index finger against my lips.

"Tag," he whispered. "You're it."

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I couldn't stay in that room, not for any longer. As soon as he whispered the words, the colour drained from my face and I couldn't hear anything, because of the frantic beating of my heart; he was watching me carefully. Judging my reaction, I think. I don't know — I was too busy feeling terrified out of my mind to really analyse his actions, and so I threw myself to my feet, pushed my chair backwards, and fled the room.

I barely heard him call my name after me.

I didn't run, although I wanted to; the moment I'd turned the corner of the corridor, I managed to control myself, clutching my arms to my body as I walked up the corridor. I passed a classroom — the teacher frowned at me, but didn't attempt to stop me, as I made my way to my locker. Upon reaching my locker, I found my spirits jump, ever so slightly, and a nervous smile flickered across my face — Naruto waved at me, leaning on the locker next to mine, as I neared him. His smile was wide. He looked so happy, that I managed to forget all about Sasuke.

The only reminder of his words, in fact, was the photograph in my pocket.

"Hey, Hinata!"

"H—hello, Naruto," I replied, grinding to a halt beside my locker, biting my lip as I smiled sheepishly at him. "It's nice to see you again."

"I can _definitely_ say the same about you," Naruto grinned, waggling his eyebrows at me, and I couldn't help it — I giggled, raising my hand to cover my mouth, my childhood habits winning me over; my mother had always said it was more polite to laugh in such a way, and I continued doing it ever since. His expression sobered up, however, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're feeling better, right?"

It was sweet. He was worried.

But his words brought back everything Sasuke had said, and I only just managed to nod my head, pulling away from his hand and turning to my locker. I could barely remember the combination — but, upon remembering it, I wished I hadn't.

My locker was filled with those photographs. They slipped onto the floor, fluttered to the ground like butterflies — they made my heart freeze, my head hurt. Each one of my face, eight years old, each with the same three words scrawled across my features; I really couldn't help myself, then. I placed both of my hands on my face, and let out a muffled sob, as, distantly, I saw Naruto bend down, scooping up one of the photographs, and he looked confused and frightened. A little bit lost, really. That made me realise, I think, that I needed Sasuke, because, with him, I'd felt at least as if he knew what he was doing. As if he understood. As if, I guess, he could _protect_ me. The photographs reminded me that I would come to need him, because he _knew _something.

He was, after all, the last one to have seen Ino.

Things were moving so fast, I couldn't keep up.

It never occurred to me, not then, not once, that Sasuke could have been the killer.

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Sasuke ran a hand through his hair, staring absently at the desk in front of him, at the chair where she'd sat. His expression was carefully blank. He glanced down at his hands — at the fingertips, so rough and callous, that had felt so smooth brushing against her skin. He wondered, absently, why she'd been picked. Why _he'd_ been picked.

Why they'd both been picked.

It was a game of Cat and Mouse, he knew that much.

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It was a game of Cat and Mouse, even back then — I was just too scared, too frightened, to see that. If I'd truly been looking, I would have noticed. It was a game — nothing more than a game, to that murderer — and he had an entire school full of people who didn't know they were playing. People like _me. _Like _Ino._

It was a game of Cat and Mouse, and_ we_ were the mice.

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**Author's Note:**

Hey, guys! It's Briony here, with a new Sasuke & Hinata fic, with a whole bunch of side pairings, like you wouldn't even believe. This is _Tag, _the idea those of you who voted at my profile picked; and I hope you've enjoyed this prologue! There'll be loads more to come. So, just a few little things to keep you wanting more; what does Sasuke want with Hinata? Is Naruto all he seems to be? And who is this person, so obsessed with poor Hinata?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Please review!

_briony, x_


	2. 01: Knock 'em Down, Kid

_I still don't own Naruto.  
Thanks for all the great feedback. Here's another chapter, for all of you!_

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**CHAPTER ONE:  
**knock 'em down, kid

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Anko yawned, stretching her arms over her head, lab-coat rustling as she straightened; she flashed her reflection a smile, inspecting herself on the blade of an abandoned scalpel, and made her way over to the stone table, in the centre of the room. Behind it stood Kakashi, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the body below — tracing the contours of the face with his eyes, absently wondering what it could be like to have a daughter — and such a pretty one, too — and have her ripped so cruelly away from them. The lab-rat cleared her throat, then, startling him from his thoughts; he looked upwards, plastering a smile across his face — although it was hidden by the white surgical mask he was wearing — and waved lazily.

"Hello, Anko," he murmured, before gesturing towards the body, "I guess it's about time you worked your magic."

She rolled her eyes, slipping her fingers into the pocket of her coat, withdrawing a tape recorder; she placed it next to her mouth, clicked it on, and then ducked forwards, beginning to slowly cut away the dead girl's dress — and it was quite a nice dress, in a sense. Designer, probably. She seemed like the type of girl who liked things to be designer; expensive, high-class and _beautiful, _just as he imagined she would have been, for the boy who just so happened to be dating her.

"The victim, identified as Yamanaka Ino, appears to be sixteen years old, at most," Anko's voice cut across his thoughts, and he stuck his hands into his pockets, watching as she moved closer to the body, eyes on the other's eyelids, lifting them upwards, "Sixteen years old, female, blonde hair, blue eyes — probably a real catch, when she was less…"

She trailed off, floundering helplessly.

"Dead?" Kakashi offered.

Anko raised an eyebrow.

"Yes — less _dead_," she paused, before continuing, "Time of death, I would guess, was at around midnight, last night — but you'd know that, I suppose. Cause of death…"

She stopped, then, peeling back the victim's clothes, revealing raw, red scratches and cuts, all across her upper torso. Her fingers ghosted across the wounds, angry, bright red — and she winced, brow furrowing, as she imagined the amount of pain the girl would have felt. Each cut was jagged, each one more awful than the next — judging from how ruined and ripped her clothing had been, the attacker must have slashed out randomly; the wounds zigzagged all across her body.

She lifted her eyes from the dead girl, gazing at Kakashi.

"It would seem, I suppose, that the attacker approached the victim with some sort of blade, and slashed numerous times at her chest, hands, arms and, finally, _neck. _If I were to just take an estimate, right here and now, I'd say there were… next to thirty, possibly more, cuts, each varying in length, width and depth."

She took a step backwards, pressing her hands together, eyes flicking up to meet Kakashi's. "If you were to ask for my opinion, I'm going to say that the cuts were made with a razor blade — most likely a straight razor, due to the fact that the attacker had to be easily able to swing the blade, backwards and forwards, relatively quickly. However, that's just a theory — and, as likely as it is to be true, there's also every chance that the wounds could have been made from a scalpel."

"…more likely to be the first option," Kakashi replied, placing a thumb against the surgical mask, pressing down on his lip, as he thought, "If you look at the different angles of each cut, it's hardly methodical. The killer was messy, but swift — _clean_, in a way, but completely _filthy_ at the same time. He pulled back his arm with some force," at this, Kakashi pulled back his own arm, demonstrating, "And pushed forwards. Then, he continued slashing, cutting, hacking — arm back, arm forwards — within a matter of moments. The kill wasn't methodical, no — but I'm willing to be that this murderer _was."_

Anko's smile was mocking.

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Because the bastard left absolutely no fingerprints," Kakashi returned her smile, but his eyes were dark and dangerous, "_That's_ why."

"And you've examined every piece of evidence, then?" Anko asked, resting her head on one hand and gazing across the table, leaning over the dead body — she was curious, as usual; while she didn't mind her job, she'd always loved Kakashi's job _more_; it was just so _thrilling_, in her opinion. He could look into lives, because of a death — he could see things about a person that others might never see — and each death, to her, was almost like a storybook; she often forced Kakashi to join her downstairs, in their breaks, and just _talk_. To explain to her every single little link in a puzzle.

Sometimes, she could actually help out on a case.

"Yeah," Kakashi nodded once, frowning slightly. "Asuma's heading back down to the crime scene in a bit, but we've looked everywhere; when we're done here, I'm heading back to take a glance at her phone, see if anything of any use was left on there — texts or calls to unknown numbers; you know the drill. The killer must have been wearing gloves, as there are no prints — and the only blood in the room is hers. The only message he left for us was a photograph, on which the killer had disfigured all the features of every face, bar one girl — Hyuuga Hinata, a friend of the victim's; although, by her own words, not a close friend. But none of this really gives us anything — singling out Hinata might label her the next victim; or, likewise, it could just be meaningless — something to throw us off the killer's scent."

"He scribbled across the photo?" She blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Ignoring the death — the crime committed — if someone were to scribble across a face on a photograph, what would that say to you?"

He sighed, drawing a hand across his face, shrugging a shoulder absently. "It could say _anything. _Scribbling across faces could equal hatred towards those people — anger, rage, jealousy, spite; _any _negative feeling, really. Leaving one face perfect gives the impression that that person is _better_ than the others; that they've been singled out — a message, I guess you could say—"

"—which could mean — for one reason or another — that the message hasn't been left for _you_; for the police…" Anko cut across, a smile playing across her lips as she prompted Kakashi forwards; it was the answer he'd been searching for, she was sure of that. In a manner quite characteristic for Kakashi, he'd approached the case in one way — the _wrong_ way — and, as such, had found himself completely stumped.

He hadn't even thought to consider that the killer might have left a message—

Kakashi froze, hand still pressed against his chin, eyes meeting Anko's.

—for someone _else. _

"It's a message for Hyuuga Hinata."

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Everyone has their own way of escaping.

It was true — Neji, for example, played the piano when he was troubled; you could easily tell, because his fingers seemed to dance across the keys, but his brow furrowed and, no matter how many times you called his name, he didn't hear you. He just kept playing, lost in the music — thoughts disappearing, I guessed, as the notes faded away into the air. I could faintly hear the notes of _Fur Elise, _as I lay sprawled across my bed, schoolbag beside me, trying to forget the world. I used to think my means of coping — of escaping, I suppose, because that's _how_ I cope — was drawing, but I hadn't picked up a pencil and a sketch pad since I was eleven.

Back then, I'd spend all my time at the back of the class, doodling away. I used to be good at it, really, when I did it often — but I hadn't done it since; I never had the time anymore, nor the patience — actually, I've never understood how I managed to spend all that time on so much _detail_; looking at all of the little things, instead of simply seeing the big picture. It took so long to create so little; but it used to be rewarding.

I pressed my fingers against my forehead, dragging downwards, attempting to work away my frown and forget everything — not that it really worked; every time I tried to think of something different, of something _safe_, my eyes strayed back to my schoolbag, and my thoughts returned to the photograph. I frowned, closed my eyes, attempted to think of _anything_ else — of school, of Naruto, of assembly and Kiba and _Ino_ — but then, sure enough, my thoughts spiralled quickly to Uchiha Sasuke, to his _touch_, to the photographs and—

_Tag._

_You're it._

I could barely stop myself from shuddering. Unable to help myself any longer, I turned onto my stomach and stretched a hand out for my bag, snatching the strap up off the floor and swinging the rucksack — still heavy with school books — onto my bed. It was unclipped within a matter of seconds, and I emptied the contents out onto my duvet, flinging the empty bag aside before sorting through books and pens and scraps of paper — some with notes scrawled across, some blank — until I found the photographs, all neatly tied together with a piece of string Naruto'd found for me, when I'd finally calmed down.

Already, as my fingers brushed against the photographs, I felt my heart begin to thud.

I let the photographs fall apart, splaying them across my bed, fingers searching through the photographs — but for what? I wasn't sure. I found myself gazing at a sea of innocent, eight-year-old smiles — and I guess, no matter how sinister it all was, I ended up feeling a little bit nostalgic; I smiled, brushing my thumb across one of the many old photos. Just as I was gazing at them, the door swung open and a brief gust of wind scattered the photographs across my bed; I hastened to gather them up, as Hanabi peered around the doorway, clutching in her hands our tiny black cat, as she stared at me.

"…what're you doing?" She asked, one hand resting upon the cat's forehead — Hanabi called him Shuuhei, but pretty much all of the rest of the family simply named him Shuu, because Shuuhei just seemed so _big_, for such a tiny cat.

Shuu let out a pitiful mewl — he'd never liked the way Hanabi held him, one arm scooped up beneath his stomach, the other barely supporting his lower back. The poor cat looked like a rag doll. I scooped up the final photographs, placing them face down in a pile, before tucking them beneath my pillow; then, with a rushed, "_Nothing_, Hanabi," I straightened, slipping off the bed to steal Shuu away from her.

Hanabi frowned at me.

"You _know_ dad doesn't like it when we keep secrets," she announced, folding her arms across her chest. "I'm not going to _lie_ to him."

"Just don't bring it up, Hanabi," I replied, with a small smile, "If he doesn't ask, don't tell — promise?"

My sister stared at me for a fraction of a second longer, as if waiting for me to cave in — after all, it was something I'd _usually _do. Usually, if I had a secret, Hanabi would manage to make me spill everything, and then, within a few weeks, father would know; and, of course, the entire exchange would usually end up with a lecture to the tune of Neji's piano, where my cousin sat in the opposite room, away from everyone. When Hanabi finally realised I wasn't going to give in anytime soon, she sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and flapped a hand at me. "What_ever_; it's dinner, anyway. Put that cat down and hurry up."

With that, my sister disappeared back around the door and out of sight — I waited until I heard her footsteps disappear down the stairs, before placing Shuu gingerly upon my bed and scooping up the photographs. I found the piece of string I'd used previously and re-tied the photographs, before searching for a new hiding place. As I searched, the cat slid of my bed, arching his back as he wandered absently across the room, slipping out of the open door — Hanabi had left it open, after she'd gone. I ignored him, however, finally settling on a satisfying hiding place; the empty shoe-box at the bottom of my wardrobe, complete with a pair of black school-shoes I'd never worn once. I tucked the photographs beneath the shoes, shut the box and then heaped a pile of clothes upon the hiding place.

I was so satisfied with my handiwork, that I barely heard the footsteps as a final person snuck into my room.

A hand clasped my shoulder, and the squeak flew out of my mouth before I could say another word; in response, my mind immediately flew back to when I was much younger, and my father had forced me to take those karate classes (which I'd promptly given up after a year in highschool, and realising that not even karate could save me from the nasty people within it). I twisted my body, gripped the stranger's wrist, and was ready to bodily twist him over my shoulder — although, in retrospect, I would never have been able to pull off such a bold move; I would have no doubt injured myself more than him — when a second hand closed upon my own, and the stranger let out an amused chuckle.

"Jumpy, cousin?"

"N—_Neji!"_ I replied, before letting out a nervous little giggle, turning around to face my cousin.

He raised an eyebrow, letting go of me to tuck his hands into his pockets — he was dressed in a shirt and suit combination, his tie hanging loosely across his shoulders; he was barely two years older than me, but, despite everything my father had said to stop him, he'd left school early. After a year as a mechanic, and returning home covered in dirt and grime, he'd finally found himself enough money to buy his own piano — and, as a result, he'd begun to tutor others; he wrote music for a living, at the moment, and worked in the library every weekday evening, to Saturday morning. Still, despite his calloused fingers and his dirty nails, he was the same person he'd been since he was little.

Stoic and intelligent — _stubborn_, and sometimes a little bit cold — with a wicked sense of humour, that generally consisted of scaring me at every given opportunity. Well, that _might_ have been a slight exaggeration, but Neji _did_ have a knack when it came to making me jump — his footsteps were entirely silent, possibly because of the fact that he _didn't_ give up karate, when my father had forced us to take it together.

He'd been much better at it than me.

"You _scared_ me." I barely managed to stop myself from stuttering, as I took a step backwards, folding my arms defensively across my chest — I realised my shoulders were tense and my back was rigid, and I gave myself a moment to relax, letting out a small sigh of relief.

Neji's eyebrow rose higher, and his gaze moved briefly across to the photographs and my hiding place — then he shrugged, rolled his eyes, and turned away. "If you want to talk, I'm here," he announced blankly, before moving towards the exit — he glanced back over his shoulder only once, with another shrug, "You ought to hurry up. Hiashi dislikes it when we're late for dinner. It's _family time_, or something."

"You know, you can call him u—uncle, if you want to," I said, following him, making sure to close my bedroom door as we left my room; he took the stairs two at a time, heading downwards, and I followed at a slower pace. "It's not a sign of weakness, honestly."

"Trust me," Neji replied, his voice humourless, "It most certainly _is."_

I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes, pausing briefly on the stairs — Neji strode on ahead, without glancing back, passing along the hallway and into the dining room. I made to follow him, but, just as I was about to, something brushed against my legs — something soft. Furry. Still, it took me by surprise, and I clamped my hands across my mouth, muffling the squeak; my eyes flickered downwards, following Shuu as he snuck down the hallway, before disappearing into the living room. I wasn't sure why, but I followed him; and my fingers were trembling as I moved them from my face, crossing my hands over my chest.

I was _scared._

But… why? I couldn't understand; the photographs were upstairs, hidden from sight, and I was fine — my exchange with Uchiha Sasuke had been safely pushed to the back of my mind. The feeling of his touch, his gaze, his _smirk_ — all of it had been hidden away, just like the photos, and—

I entered the living room and my body instantly grew cold, the hairs on my neck prickling on end; the entire room felt cold, despite the fact that the temperature hadn't dropped, and I felt myself trembling.

Scared.

Oh so _scared._

A soft mewl cut across my thoughts.

I looked up, eyes instantly meeting that of my cat's; and I felt myself relax, if only for a fraction of a second. He was sat upon the windowsill, glassy green eyes staring at me, wide and unblinking as its tail twitched back and forth; other than that movement, the cat was entirely motionless. The curtains of the window were wide open. There was only darkness beyond it — a heavy blackness, which nothing distinguishable could be seen in; only shapes and blurs and shadows. I placed a hand upon my chest, letting my face fall back into a smile.

"…Shuu, you almost had me scared there—"

I cut off.

Two pairs of eyes were blinking at me.

Glassy, grassy green — the eyes of cat, of an _animal_ — and then dark, dark eyes, like black holes, shining, _glistening_, in the dim living room light.

I stood frozen in horror, in terror, eyes wide, mouth slipping open — and then the stranger smiled; a curved, wicked smile; white teeth gleaming in the darkness, abnormally bright, like blots of paint in the darkness. I couldn't help myself — as my heart thumped and my head pounded and the cat's tail twitched left, right, left, right, _left_, and those awful teeth and that awful mouth smiled and smiled and _smiled_—

I screamed.

The noise shocked even me, but I just stood there, this high-pitched shriek escaping my lips before I could do anything else; my hands trembled by my sides, but my eyes never left those dark, dark eyes. They were unblinking, awful, _terrible_ — but they never looked away, and they _trapped_ me, and I was scared, oh so _scared._

Arms circled around my shoulders and the eyes were blocked from view by a broad chest; the smell of conditioner — watermelon, Neji's favourite, although he'd never admit it — filled the air, and hair tickled my cheeks, as I was pushed forcefully forwards, eyes still wide, wide, _wide_, unblinking, pressed against his chest. Distantly, I heard the sound of soothing whispers, but I ignored them — absently, I realised I was still screaming. The sound was muffled now, but it still escaped my lips, on and on and _on_, like a siren; I could feel Hanabi's fingers brushing against my hair, and she was speaking, voice close to tears, obviously worried about me. And then Neji was shoved away, and new arms replaced his. A stronger, broader chest. Calloused fingers, brushing my cheeks.

My father gripped my chin, gently moving my head so that I was gazing at him. His face, usually stern, brow usually furrowed in concentration, the epitome of all things serious, was unusually blank. There was something like fear dancing behind his eyes, but it hurt to think that he was scared — that my _father_, the man who used to chase the bogeymen from my wardrobe when I was six and a half, was _scared. _It hurt.

It scared me.

I realised I'd stopped screaming, and he offered me a troubled grimace — it was supposed to be a smile, I figured, but the worry and fear and _everything_ had twisted it into something which made me want to burst into tears. "What's gotten into you, Hinata?" He murmured, voice grave, tinged with that same cold fear that tore me up so completely. "That was…"

He trailed off.

Sometimes, it seemed even the great Hyuuga Hiashi could be lost for words.

Not that I really wanted to speak — I didn't have the right words, anyway; but I opened my mouth to reassure him that I was alright, and instantly let out a choked sob. Above me, I heard him sigh, a soft, resigned noise, but he pressed my head against his chest anyway; I felt the tears sliding down my face before I could stop myself. I don't know how long we stood there, quiet, as Neji stood silent behind me and Hanabi pressed her hands against her chest. I don't know how long we stood there, my heartbeat fluttering, my tears flowing — oh so painfully and dreadfully _scared_ — but I know that that was the beginning.

When I looked at the window again, the eyes were gone.

And only Shuu gazed back at me, wide, glassy green eyes, tail swinging backwards and forwards — every swing, every look, every whisker-twitched reminding of the stranger from only moments ago.

That was when I realised the game had _begun._

.

.

Dinner was eaten in near silence.

I was too shaken up to really join in with any of the conversation, choosing instead to gaze blankly at my plate, knife and fork abandoned on the table. My hands never once moved from my lap. Every now and then, Hanabi would shoot me a nervous glance, biting her lip, looking as if she wanted to say something — no doubt ask what had started me off screaming like that, and I highly doubted I'd be able to tell her the truth — but she was silenced by one look from our father. Neji was avoiding my gaze entirely.

Eventually, my father seemed unable to take it any longer, resting his knife and fork gently upon the table, folding his arms as he stared at me. I could feel his eyes tracing every contour of my face, scrutinizing me so carefully that I felt almost as though he were looking _through _me. He waited for a moment, until the silence grew almost stifling — and that was when I realised both Neji and Hanabi had frozen in a similar fashion —, before finally speaking.

"…would you care to explain, Hinata, what that was all about?"

His voice was carefully measure, almost entirely calm — but there was a slight wobble on my name, and, when I tried to catch his eye, I saw he wasn't looking quite _at_ me. He was looking in my direction, yes, but he seemed to be looking _through _me, a misty look glazing his eyes over, as if he were reminiscing; no doubt of the days when I was younger. Of the days when a nightmare could be solved by chanting the special words, which made the monsters vanish — when a single switching on of a light got rid of every bad thing in the room.

Where eyes didn't stare in at you from the darkness.

Watching.

_Waiting._

I barely managed to suppress my shudder, and that was when I remembered my father was waiting for an answer — I tried not to look too sheepish, as I shrugged a shoulder. "I… I guess I thought I s—saw something outside."

Hiashi narrowed his eyes.

"A… a face," I admitted, wondering, absently, if it would have been better to keep my mouth closed, "But it was n—nothing. I promise. What with the entire… I—Ino thing, my nerves have been a bit f—frazzled and I guess I'm… I…"

I trailed off.

My throat all of a sudden felt red hot and I knew I was close to tears. I pushed my chair backwards, standing up abruptly, china upon the table clattering as I moved. My father barely flinched. Hanabi, however, let out a barely suppressed squeak, and Neji's eyes narrowed — he grew rigid, tense; a position I recognised from our karate lessons. He was readying himself to strike. To leap heroically up after me.

I wouldn't give him the chance.

"I'm going for a walk," I announced, gaze fixing with my father's — I waited for a moment, just to see his tiny nod, before whirling away, hair cutting through the air as I moved hastily away from the table. I heard Neji stand — heard my father's clear, cool voice cut through the air, calling him back, and they spoke in hushed tones; then I waited no longer, snapping out of my hesitation. I picked my jacket up — slung carelessly across the floor after I'd returned home from school — and made my way out of the front door.

.

.

The night air was cold, brisk and _sharp. _It hit me suddenly, as I wasn't ready for it; I waited for a moment, getting used to the new temperature, before beginning to walk steadily away from my house — if I knew my father and cousin well enough, I would have five minutes or less before the door opened after me, and one of them began to follow.

And, for some reason, I didn't _want_ them following.

If I had been less scared — if my heart had not been racing from the aftershock of the earlier event — I doubt I would have even _left_ the house on my own. I would have retreated to my bedroom, sat on my bed and emptied to busy myself, until I was no longer thinking of those dark, frightful eyes; I might have glanced, every few seconds, at the hiding place of those photographs, but I wouldn't — I _definitely _wouldn't — have left my home. You're taught from a very young age that home equals safety, and it's a very difficult thought to get rid of; but then and there, home was the last place I wanted to be.

Because home meant _talking_ — it meant that questions would come thick and fast, and I would be expected to answer; and if I _didn't_ answer, they'd be all the more worried. Either way, I'd be forced to accept that there was something wrong; that there was truth to Sasuke's words, and that, in reality, I'd be safest if I stuck with him. But I couldn't do such a thing; the way he'd touch me—

Absently, my fingers brushed across my cheek, mimicking his movements from before.

—it had _scared _me.

I sighed, hugging my arms around my chest; my pace slowed a little, as I realised there was no need to rush on ahead. Either way, Neji would no doubt end up throwing an arm around my shoulder at some point and leading me back home — but I had yet to hear the sound of his footsteps. Not that I really minded, to be honest; I enjoyed the silence. It was easier for me to think. But it was _dark_ — already so dark, and the dim streetlamps offered little light — and I was growing cold; I knew I'd have to return home sooner rather than later, otherwise my mind would surely begin to play tricks on me.

A shadowy figure staggered in front of me — gazed at me with deep, dark eyes — and I froze.

Those _eyes._

Just like _before._

I would surely have screamed then and there, had the other not let out a low groan, stepping forwards slightly into the light. Upon closer inspection, his eyes weren't at all that dark — they were, in fact, turquoise, the colour of stormy seas — and a shadow had simply been cast across his face, tricking me entirely. I placed a hand upon my chest, letting out a little sigh of relief; but that relief was cut short as the stranger gripped my wrist firmly, tilting his head.

I didn't pull my hand away — not at first. I took a moment to see if I recognised him. Dark, red hair, which fell across his forehead and into his eyes, ever so slightly messy and just a tad too long; he had pale skin, which gleamed beneath the moonlight, so bright that it almost hurt my eyes. He was sweating heavily and, from his dishevelled breathing, I assumed he must have been running. His eyes — which were quite pretty, I decided, upon a second glance — were ringed with shadows, as if he hadn't slept in some time, and, looking briefly down, his white shirt was ruffled, messy, stained with spots of _red—_

I paused.

He was _bleeding._

My eyes met his again, and he grimaced weakly. My mouth opened and closed as I gaped helplessly; and I watched in disbelief as his eyes rolled upwards and he fell against me, knocking us both to the ground. My back hit the concrete and I let out a little squeak — he bounced against me, letting out another low groan before falling completely silent, still.

Behind me, footsteps approached.

I glanced up, Neji staring back at me, face white, eyes wide, "…Hinata? What happened?"

"C—call an _ambulance!" _

My voice felt too high. I didn't feel like myself. Lying there, that broken boy bleeding onto me, I felt very much like someone _else_ — as if I were gazing down at myself through the eyes of anyone else and thinking, 'Oh, how truly _bizarre_ this all is.' I only faintly heard Neji's footsteps disappear, as he ran back towards the house, having not picked up his phone — not that I could blame him, as I'd left mine in my schoolbag.

Honestly, I didn't think I was going to need it.

I glanced down at red hair and pale skin — I watched as his chest rose and fell quickly, _too quickly_, as if his heart were beating too fast; beating so fast that it would eventually run out. I placed my hand on his, squeezed once, bit my lip and willed Neji to hurry up.

Looking back, he surely would have been the _second _victim in that twisted little game, had he not bumped into me. That was the day I met a survivor, all red hair and pale skin and smoky eyes — and a beautiful will to live, that could not be vanquished by anyone. Bleeding across the ground and my shirt, staining my school blouse red, that was the day I met a fighter — perhaps one of the strongest, _scariest_ people I would ever meet.

That was the day I met Gaara.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The knife in his hand was slippery, stained dark red with blood. He pressed his back against the wall, glancing once around the corner — and he saw _her_, so pretty, pretty, eyes wide with fear, clutching the bastard he had gutted; or, at least, _attempted_ to gut, except the mouse had been stronger than he had anticipated.

_Faster_ than he anticipated.

"Run, little mouse," he whispered, and his voice was strained. "Or the farmer's wife shall cut off your tail with a _carving knife."_

With that, he tucked the knife into his coat pocket and left.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The ambulance came not soon after Neji called it.

There was a blur of flashing blue-and-red, the screech of sirens, and then he was being bundled onto a stretcher, as I clutched his hand desperately; then I was knelt beside him, inside the ambulance, and we were being rushed away towards the hospital. It was all, in reality, a blur of white for me — the white of the inside of the ambulance easily mingled with the white-washed walls of the hospital, and the white covers of the bed the red-headed stranger lay upon. One second, I was holding his hand, in the darkness.

The next second, everything was so bright it made my eyes _sting._

As the doctors worked to save him — to stitch that awful wound, blossoming petals like a deadly crimson flower —, I stood in the waiting area outside, gazing blankly at the glass panels which separated us. Two different lives, separated simply by a feeble piece of glass — within seconds, only what seemed like minutes early, that stranger had shattered that wall of glass so easily. And now there I was, stood outside like a lost puppy, wanting nothing more than for a man I'd never met before to get better.

To _live. _

The doctor — an elderly man, a few years older than my father, with faded hair and a wrinkled, kindly face — left the room, mopping the blood from his hands with a piece of white cloth. He crossed over to me, plastering a smile across his face, his eyes betraying the worry within; but he held his hand out, pressed it comfortingly against my shoulder, eyes creased into a gentle smile. "Your boyfriend will be fine," he told me, and I didn't correct him. "He's going to be unconscious for a while, but you're welcome to sit with him, if you wish."

I nodded mutely.

"I'll send a nurse by in a little while, then," he finished, with a final nod, before turning away, leaving the door wide open.

I waited for him to disappear, before walking over to the door. I couldn't help but hesitate in the doorway; the boy — I hadn't learnt his name, yet, at that period of time — was asleep, and I felt as though it wasn't something he did often. His arms lay by his sides — his right hand would twitch every now and then, and he would flinch as he did so, a grimace flickering briefly across his face, before he fell back into calm. I stayed where I was, for a moment longer; after all, this was a complete stranger. _I _was a complete stranger.

But, even then, I had the feeling that we wouldn't be strangers for much longer.

That's why despite not knowing who he was or where he'd come from, I walked across the room, sat by his side, and held his hand.

I don't know how long I sat there for, but the hours seemed long and slow, as I watched his chest rise and fall beneath the thin white blanket. Neji walked in once, placed a hand on my shoulder, said something in a low, soft voice — "you were in shock, everything's okay now, I _promise_." — before leaving again; he was briefly followed by my father, who simply stood by the wall, arms crossed, gazing at me from a distance. Hanabi entered once, but she swayed where she stood, leaving just as quickly as she came.

And all the while, I simply gazed at his hand in mine, feeling awfully numb. His hand felt too cold, too limp, like he was already _dead_ — but the doctor had said… And he was sleeping, I was sure of that, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling, one, two — one, two — one, two—

"…Hinata."

A familiar voice cut across my thoughts and my head jerked upwards; I gazed beneath dark lashes at the newcomer, a frown flitting briefly across my face, before letting my stare drop back to his hand.

"…_oh_."

Uchiha Sasuke stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, face perfectly blank, and, sat there in that chair, I suddenly felt _small. _My voice felt tiny — my shoulders hunched slightly and I felt myself droop. All of a sudden, that hand in mine was extremely interesting; and my eyes took in every single detail, in those few seconds of tense silence, as I felt Sasuke scrutinizing me. It felt _hot_ — burning hot, like his gaze was scolding me, _hurting_ more than I thought a simple look could — and _electric. _One glance upwards and my eyes met his, and I shuddered.

His eyes were so dark.

He tilted his head, then, still looking straight at me — and I found that I couldn't look away. "…I didn't expect to see you here," he said, and there was something a little extra in his voice, that I couldn't quite make out — an emotion which almost very nearly cut through his usual monotone; something I couldn't quite understand…

It sounded like jealousy.

And all of a sudden, I felt the need to explain myself.

"I, ah… I was going for a w—walk, when he… came out of nowhere! And he was _bleeding, _like someone had s—stabbed him; and earlier, there was a _face_, at the window, and he was _looking_, and oh God, he was stabbed and it was _awful_," I let out a sob, then; a guttural sound, which tore from my throat, startling both myself and the boy stood in the doorway — Sasuke shifted, ever so slightly, but didn't move to comfort me. "He was stabbed. He could have d—died. His blood — his blood has stained my shirt, and he could have _died_, but he didn't, and oh my God, those eyes, they were t—terrible—"

He cleared his throat, interrupting my hysteria and startling me into silence.

"—why are you telling me this?"

I froze, eyes wide, confused. "…what?"

Sasuke gazed at me and his expression was scarily, terribly blank; his eyes captured mine once again, and I was struck by just how dark they were. How I felt as though they were swallowing me. Trapping me. _Understanding _me. "I offered you my help. I came to you — I tried to _help _you — but you ran away, before I could do anything."

Anger boiled up inside me, and my rage spilled over before I could do anything to stop myself. "You _t—touched_ me!"

At that, Sasuke smirked.

"You make it sound like I did something _wrong_."

I floundered for a second, unsure of how I could respond — because a little part of me, which I only barely managed to silence, was _agreeing. _Because it _had_ felt nice, looking back; that touch, his eyes, those lips — it had all been so thrilling, so _naughty_; it had made me feel like I'd finally grown up, like I wasn't just a bigger version of the eight year old girl who smiled back at me from those photographs. It made me feel dangerous.

Different.

It was _exciting._

So I simply stayed silent, letting my gaze fall back to the ground, as Sasuke let out a little triumphant snort. Silence reigned over the room for a moment longer, before he spoke again, his voice teasing.

"His name is Gaara, if you wanted to know."

I blinked, looking up then. "Do you know him?"

"Yeah," Sasuke nodded once, his stare switching briefly across to Gaara; and I looked across then, as well, as the red-head slept silently. "He's not from around here — his family lives in Sunagakure."

I frowned, "If he has family, why aren't they _here?_"

He glanced briefly at me, an amused smirk flickering across his features. "Because they don't give a shit, Hinata — and they never will. That's why he's _here_, and they're still _there. _Because they don't care."

I fell silent.

But the silence didn't last for long, and I bit my lip. "Is he… is he a p—part of all this?"

Sasuke raised an eyebrow. "Good question."

"Do you have an answer?"

And he smiled — a genuine, sad smile.

"Do you want my help, Hinata?"

I nodded one.

"Then _trust me."_

.

.

Sasuke left only a few moments later. That was the only time I moved from Gaara's side, waiting until Sasuke's footsteps faded before leaping out of my chair, crossing out into the hall and leaning against the window, eyes trained on the darkness — dimly lit by a few choice lamps — outside. Beside me, Hanabi raised an eyebrow; both Neji and my father had moved downstairs, to get drinks, and no doubt discuss the events of that night — I ignored her, however, eyes narrowing as I waited patiently.

A car pulled up.

It was sleek and black, a sports car, with tinted black windows and only two seats. One of the doors slid open and a man stepped out of the car, dressed in a suit as black as the darkness about him. I narrowed my eyes. It was difficult to make out any real details, but he looked expensive — as expensive as his car, no doubt. His hair was tied back; it fell to his mid-back, inky black, threads of darkness spiralling down his tailored suit. He reached into his suit pocket, pulling an object out and holding it near to his face, cupping a hand about it — from the flicker of amber and the wisps of curling smoke, the object could only be a lighter and cigarette, and he placed the lighter back into his pocket. Then he stood for a while, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding his cigarette, waiting in silence.

I only realised he had to be waiting for Sasuke when the other left the hospital, appearing in the clearing directly below my window. He looked about once, before spotting the stranger; his posture became rigid, tense, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, crossing over to the other with his head lowered and his shoulders hunched. He said not a word as he entered the car, nodding curtly once before disappearing with a slam of the door.

The stranger stayed where he was, silently smoking, moving his free hand up to cup the cigarette. His head tilted upwards and I saw that he was gazing at the sky, watching the stars, no doubt; then his head moved and it seemed he was looking directly at _me. _I was quite certain he couldn't have spotted me — after all, he was quite a distance away, and it _was_ dark outside.

But then he waved.

He moved his free hand from his face, raising it into the air in a lazy wave. I let out a little squeak of surprise and practically launched myself backwards, making Hanabi jump up, moving towards me almost instantly, her concern — "Hinata, are you alright? What _happened?" _— slurring with my fright.

I didn't respond.

In fact, I mustered up the courage to pull myself to my feet, gazing out into the darkness; but the stranger, Sasuke and the black car had vanished into the inky black, as if they were never there to begin with. I let my hand fall against my chest, offering Hanabi a sheepish smile. "I, ah, didn't mean to scare you."

Hanabi scowled, thwacking me once on my arm. "You _did_, though, sister."

I winced, my smile turning tentative. "…sorry."

My little sister looked as if she wanted to continue speaking; her expression turned serious, if only for a second, as she gazed at me — and then she shook her head, snapping her mouth shut. "I'm… I'm not going to ask," she muttered, rubbing her forehead absently as she flapped one hand at me to leave, "I'm not even going to _ask."_

For a second, I was saddened by how world weary my sister suddenly seemed — scared of how her shoulders slumped and her hair swung in front of her face as she sat down, as if she were folding in on herself. I suddenly felt very guilty, and I offered her a final little smile before turning back to the door; without looking back, I headed into Gaara's room, moving instantly towards my seat. There, I sat down, gazing absently at the floor, tapping one foot as I tried to sort out my thoughts — thoughts of family, of Sasuke, of that mysterious man, of the killer, of Ino and the events of last night — of _everything_ that had happened.

A groan cut through my thoughts and my head snapped upwards.

Half-lidded, turquoise eyes stared blankly back at me, before widening once with recognition, and I felt a smile split across my face. I watched as Gaara began to pull himself up into a comfortable sitting position, before letting out a dull hiss of pain and falling back onto his pillow — my smile flickered, then, and I moved forwards instantly, despite not really being able to do anything. I clutched his hand, biting my lip.

"You were stabbed," I said, "So don't move — the doctors spent ages m—making you, ah, _better_, so don't move."

He didn't reply.

Just looked at me.

I realised I hadn't introduced myself, and I immediately flushed a deep shade of red. "I'm Hyuuga Hinata," I continued, and I bowed my head instantly — it was a habit I'd never managed to quite get rid of. "I was the one who found you last night. Or, I g—guess, you sort of found _me_, but that doesn't matter."

For a few minutes, I thought he wasn't going to talk at all — just _stare_ at me — but then he tilted his head, eyes flickering briefly around the room before meeting mine again. "…where am I?"

"A hospital," I replied.

"Right," he let out a broken chuckle, which quickly turned into a round of rattling coughs, "Silly question."

I had to resist the urge to giggle, purely because I was certain that if I did so, I'd quickly turn hysterical; instead, I placed my hand over my mouth, sucked in a deep breath, and then let my hand drop down to my side. Gaara's eyes were curious as he looked at me, and I shrugged a shoulder, smiling feebly, "It's a habit."

He nodded once and then there was silence again.

Of course, as expected, I was the one who attempted to break that silence.

"Where are you staying?" I paused, reconsidering my question, "Rather, I meant, where are you staying, so I can contact someone — anyone — to pick you up? You can't… you can't stay here all night, right? Your parents would get worried."

The last line was a bet, and I had thrown it out there; I wanted to confirm Sasuke's words. I still didn't quite trust the other, so I wanted to confirm he was telling the truth, before stepping any further into a partnership — relationship? — with him. Gaara's expression turned dangerously blank; his entire face was still, but his hand — which I hadn't realised I was still clutching — tightened in mine, clenching into a fist. His eyes were stormy. In the light, they looked as grey as the waves of a tossing, turning sea, and, almost instinctively, I bit my lip, waiting for his response.

"He _won't_ worry."

A father, then, I grasped from those three words.

…no mother?

"He never does," Gaara's voice changed slightly, the littlest bit of bitterness threading through his soft monotone — he wasn't looking at me, staring instead fixedly at the wall opposite. "None of them do."

I squeezed his hand, and, almost reluctantly, he turned to face me. "That doesn't change anything," I said, and my voice was gentle. "I still need an address_. _Someone you can stay with. _Anyone._"

"What about you?"

I blinked.

"…what?"

"You," Gaara replied patiently. "What about _you?"_

I blushed bright red, moving one hand in front of my face, waiting until I was certain I wouldn't let out a high-pitched, nervous squeak before speaking, "Y—you _can't! _We're complete strangers! That would be impractical and p—potentially dangerous, for _both_ of us — you don't even know who I _am."_

"You're Hyuuga Hinata," and his voice was still oh so patient, "And you haven't let go of my hand since you arrived."

With another flush of beetroot red, I realised he was right.

So instead of arguing immediately, I simply opened and closed my mouth, attempting to think of the correct words to say. I'd given barely any information out to this stranger, but he was acting as if he'd always known me — and, in the same way, I had acted so familiarly around him, as well, grasping his hand and sitting with him as he slept. Even looking back now, I still can't remember why I did it — why the urge, that _feeling_, came over me, and I felt as though I _had_ to sit with him, to see that he survived.

He let out a deep, throaty chuckle, then, closing his eyes and shaking his head once. "I was joking. If you can find a pen and some paper, then I'll write down that address for you."

I didn't realise my heart was beating so quickly, until I placed my hand on my chest, face relaxing as relief washed over me. I nodded once in his direction, before letting go of his hand, moving across to his bedside table to search for paper. There was none in the first drawer, but a scrap in the second drawer, and I found that I only needed a pen; absently, I checked under the bed — back at home, I was _constantly_ dropping things, only to find that they rolled underneath my bed, as if my bed had some sort of gravitational pull.

There was one pen there, getting slightly dusty, and I snatched it up, before holding out both my pen and paper for him to use, with a triumphant smile. He rolled his eyes, took the stationery away from me, and scribbling down an address in a messy, slanting scrawl — then he handed it back to me, slumping down into the bed as if the effort of it all was far too much for him.

I smiled gratefully. "We'll drop you off now, if you want."

He raised an eyebrow — or, rather, I realised, that was what he would have been doing if he _had_ any eyebrows. "Should I really be moving?"

My smile faltered.

"…probably not."

Gaara shook his head, the smallest of smiles flickering across his face, as he swept aside the blanket. Some part of my brain registered the fact that he was lacking a shirt, bandages across his lower torso — and that he looked _good_ without a shirt, _especially_ with the bandages. I think he caught me staring, because there came that eyebrow-raise again, and then he gestured for me to move forwards. I crossed around the bed, until I was stood in front of him — then he slung his arm around my neck, heaving himself upwards. He wasn't wearing any shoes, just baggy pyjama bottoms — I was certain he'd be wearing a hospital gown, but, for a reason unknown to me, he wasn't.

I snuck a sideways glance at him, just in time to catch him rolling his eyes.

"Walk," he commanded, and we did, like contenders at a children's race, staggering across the room until we were out the door; there, Hanabi blinked, eyes widening as she stood up. I offered her a little smile.

"This is Gaara."

He nodded once, curtly, and Hanabi bit her lip, ducking her head in response. It was an awkward greeting. They sort of suited each other, in that neither quite wanted to look at the other — both, instead, stared expectantly at me; waiting for me to take the first step. Waiting for me to instruct Hanabi; to tell her to go and fetch Neji, because Gaara was much heavier than he looked. Waiting for something — _anything_ — to happen.

But things were already happening — and I wondered if they were happening too fast.

.

.

Gaara sat in the backseat, beside me, as we drove towards his chosen address; my father was behind the steering wheel, fingers drumming impatiently upon the dashboard as we waited at a traffic light. We'd left Hanabi and Neji back at the hospital, as there hadn't been enough space to fit everyone into the car — and although Gaara had said he would quite happily wait until last, Neji had insisted upon being the gentleman, ushering a stoic red-head into the car and hushing Hanabi as she began to grumble. We'd driven away pretty smoothly, and there'd been little traffic on the roads; it had been almost like my lucky day.

Minus the entire _stabbing_ thing, I guess.

I snuck a sideways glance at Gaara. He was sat slumped against the window, peering out into the darkness — I could dimly make out his features, reflected back at me from the window, and he seemed tired. The bags beneath his eyes seemed darker. His skin looked paler. He looked deathly ill. In all fairness, I suppose that was pretty natural — he _had_ lost a lot of blood, after all. My gaze turned back to the front and I only just noticed my father gazing at me, staring over his shoulder at me, scrutinizing my movements.

He turned away before I could say anything, eyes flickering up into the mirror to glance at Gaara. "Are you feeling alright?" He murmured, voice abnormally gentle for my usually so strict father — he'd paused in his desktop drumming, as well.

For a moment, I was certain Gaara wouldn't reply.

Then—

"…_headache,"_ he mumbled. "My head hurts."

"It could be the adrenaline," my father replied, brow furrowing slightly. "After all, you've been through a… traumatic experience. It would only make sense that, especially back then, when you were, ah…"

He trailed off.

"…when you were _wounded_, adrenaline would have been pumping freely through your body. I suppose that, coupled with any drugs they might have had you hooked up on, when performing any… surgery, or the like, on you — I suppose that may have triggered these headaches." Hiashi faltered, just as the traffic lights flickered into go; the car slid away smoothly, engine purring, as we turned left. "I'm no doctor, but I _would_ recommend some sort of painkiller. I'm no doctor — that's just common sense."

I realised, at that moment, that my father was talking for the sake of talking — talking because he needed to fill the silence — and that worried me, for a moment. I glanced across at Gaara. He nodded once.

"I'll keep your advice in mind."

"If you ever need our help," my father finished, the car beginning to slow down as we pulled up outside what looked like a set of flats. "Then just say — I'd give you our number, but I'm sure Hinata will do that, when she takes you inside."

Gaara looked as if he were going to protest against my help, but I was out of the car quicker than he'd have ever thought. I waited patiently for him to heave himself into a standing position, before hooking his arm around my shoulders; he didn't have to lean so heavily on me, this time, but he was still grateful for the support. He had to feel embarrassed — after all, I'm sure it was against his manly pride to allow help from a girl, _especially_ if that girl had dark hair, bright eyes and was named Hyuuga Hinata. When I held open the door for him, there was almost something like mortification flickering across his face.

Absently, I wondered who this friend was, that he could feel so embarrassed in such a short space of time.

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The flat we were heading towards was near the top — number 13, on floor N. We took the elevator, despite the fact that Gaara seemed almost desperate to use the stairs; I think he wanted to prove that he wasn't as weak as he felt, but his hand almost immediately flew to his forehead, and so I ushered him into the elevator, pressing the button for the correct floor and then standing opposite him. My face was a picture of concern.

"This headache — is it something you get often, or is it because of tonight, like my father suggested?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He frowned, briefly, before shrugging.

"I've had them for as long as I can remember."

"You never went to see a doctor?"

Gaara fixed me with a peculiar look — a look I didn't understand then and probably never will understand.

The conversation fell into silence.

For some reason, I found that my heart was beating extra fast, as the elevator rose — and when the doors slid open, and the little button let out a timely ding, I found that my heart was hammering in my chest. As I helped Gaara down the corridor, searching for room number 13 — the last door on the left, next to the glass window —, I found that my breathing grew faster and faster. As I stood outside the door, knocked once, the red-head by my side, I felt as though my heart would burst.

The door slid open.

Blonde hair, blue eyes and a wide, brilliant grin—

"…Gaara? _Hinata?"_

—Uzumaki Naruto gazed back at me.

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And that was when the pieces began to fall into place.

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**Author's Note:**

Wow, thank you very much for the brilliant feedback! This is so much fun to write, and I'm glad you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing these first few chapters. At the moment, action's coming relatively regularly, but it's going to begin to slow down — I plan on exploring the events that've happened on the night of Ino's death, and so on, before I bring in the second death.

Just wondering, who do _you_ think will be next to go? After all, it was very nearly Gaara, except I realised I loved him too much — and I think I'll be having a bit more fun with him…

;D

Well, I'll see you at the next chapter! Keep reviewing!

_briony, x_


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